


Elf...?

by someoneplsloverobbierotten



Category: Elf (2003), LazyTown
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Crossover, Family Bonding, M/M, elf au, sportaboy has add/adhd and he is trying so hard, trans!stephanie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-07 11:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16853542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someoneplsloverobbierotten/pseuds/someoneplsloverobbierotten
Summary: Tryggvi doesn’t quite fit in at the North Pole. He loves his life there, but between his short attention span and boundless energy, long days making toys just aren’t for him - despite his Elven nature.So when he discovers that he has family out there in the human world, he sets out to find them, and perhaps find something more suited to his talents too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...... yea ok its been over 6 months since i posted anything here *shrug emoji*
> 
> im hopefully going to stick to a schedule with this one but i dont trust myself, so what i WILL say is that this is set to be 7 chapters long, and regardless of whenever the other lnes come out, the last one should be up on christmas eve. happy reading :)

On Christmas Eve, it would not be that unusual to see something in the sky. Be it the glow of flashing Christmas lights from the houses below, a shooting star, or a rather iconic red sleigh and accompanying reindeer. However, seeing as the moon hadn't even fully risen yet, nor all of the stars revealed themselves, it was perhaps a little early to be seeing Santa.

Yet there he was. Practically invisible amongst the clouds still meandering about, but if someone were to look closely, they would perhaps see something very familiar from their childhood stories...

Not that anyone would, of course, as it was still much too early for people to even start thinking about watching the sky, just as it was too early for Santa to be doing anything other than making last minuet checks to his sleigh and cargo, and maybe wolfing down a last minuet mice pie. That night though, Santa's sleigh had a very important trip to make first. 

The nine reindeer flew along a specified route, travelling through the clouds over a small town in America Eventually their reigns were given a gentle pull and they descended, settling on the lawn behind one particular house. They were trained from a young age to landing gently upon any surface in order to avoid alerting any residents of their presence - tales and poems featuring 'the clatter of hooves' and 'the jingle of bells' were greatly exaggerated - but this time, the grass barely bent under their hooves, they landed with such care. They stood silently, heads slightly lowered out of respect as they waited for their passengers to alight from the sleigh.

Two figures stepped down from the sleigh's cockpit. One was recognisable in an instant; his portly figure cloaked in a red robe, the white fur trim a perfect match for their long, snowy beard. The other was perhaps just as recognisable, but only in his job. He was much shorter, for a start, in a yellow shirt and tights with a brown jacket, the rim of his pointed hat, which was also yellow, tucked behind equally pointed ears.

Had anyone been around to see them that night, climbing from a reindeer-pulled sleigh in the early hours of evening, they would not have been surprised to see Santa with one of his Elves - surprised to see that Santa _existed,_ perhaps, but not that one of his Elves was there to accompany him.

However, Santa always made his Christmas deliveries alone.

The two moved quietly across the garden, no sound passing between them except the soft crunch of snow under their shoes as they made their way to the house's back door.

To the hypothetical witnesses, it might have seemed strange that not only had the sleigh had been parked in the garden and not the roof, but that Santa had chosen to use the door and not the chimney - another staple of Santa-related stories and rhymes. An odd trip so far to be sure, made even weirder to non-existent onlookers when the Elf raised his hand and knocked, the typical secrecy expected for Santa's work seemingly abandoned.

The lights in the rest of the house were already on, but after a few moments one blinked on behind the door too, a square of faint light illuminating the visitor's faces through the window. A shadow appeared behind the glass and a second later, the door was unlocked and opened, revealing a short, shout young man with a somber expression. Silently, Santa and his Elf were welcomed inside.

 

~*~

 

Almost forty minuets later, the door opened once more, warm light spilling out into the garden as Santa and the Elf stepped back out into the snow, this time with an addition; small, blue and white bundle swaddled in the Elf's arms.

The man from before appeared in the doorway, the skin around his nose and under his eyes red, and quiet words were exchanged before the two visitors nodded gratefully and turned to leave, the man giving them and the bundle a last, forlorn look as they crossed the garden before closing the door.

Silence fell once more as Santa and the Elf went back to the sleigh. Santa gave his reindeer - who had been respectful and not eaten any of the grass - fond pats as the Elf stared at the lumpy ball of cloth in his arms. Santa frowned sadly at his friend's distress, settling a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"I am deeply sorry, Brynjar," he said, his deep voice filled with sympathy, "and on Christmas Eve too… I promise you, the child will have a home at the Pole as long as he wishes."

"Thank you," the Elf said quietly, giving a great full nod. His base was still locked onto the tiny child in his arms.

Santa gave Brynjar's shoulder a squeeze before letting his hand drop. "We shall discuss more later. For now, I believe the two of you need time together; to rest and grieve." he gestured towards the sleigh and its reindeers. "Come, friend, the night is still young. Lets get the two of you back to the pole before I have to start deliveries, and I will see you tomorrow when we are both better rested."

Brynjar nodded. "Thank you," he said sincerely, finally looking up from the baby. He accepted Santa's hand to help him into the sleigh's cockpit, careful not to disturb the child in his arms. Settling into the soft leather seating, he brushed a thumb over the baby's small cheek, his _son,_ as Santa climbed in the other side.

The tiny points of his ears were red from the cold, so Brynjar tucked the blanket more firmly around him. Santa flicked the reigns and the sleigh lifted off of the lawn, rising through the air and up above the clouds.

Brynjar watched as the reindeer set a course for the North Star, his finger playing with a minuscule blonde curl that had fluffed out from under his son's blanket. "Let's go home, Tryggvi," he whispered as the sleigh disappeared into the night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When morning came around, Tryggvi was abuzz with excitement.

He dressed in record time, so quick in fact that he almost forgot to put on his tights. He'd gotten about two steps out of his door before he worked out why his legs seemed so cold that morning and rushed back to put them on, stumbling this way and that as he tried to hop into them as fast as possible. Then he had put on his shoes - again - and rushed off. (That time he managed to get halfway down the hall before he realised that he'd forgotten his hat too, but that was easy enough to retrieve. He'd always been a good runner.) Despite his setbacks, it was still the quickest he’d managed to get dressed in a long time.

The reason for his extra energy was that the parts for the Etch-A-Sketches were being delivered today.

Toys made by Elves were always made in batches, usually organised by category - for example; January and February were almost always solely dedicated to dolls and action figures; half of March for stuffed toys, with the remainder and April for vehicles; May, June and July were all for electronics, since they were the most complex and time-consuming, including robots, remote-control vehicles and the voice inserts for any dolls or teddies. It was easier to keep track of things that way. Most toys however, such as the vehicles and electronics, had multiple parts that were made by Elves in different factories across the Pole - or even some in other countries. Anything requiring a forge was too hot to be made at the Pole, and certain chemicals or metals that had to be sourced elsewhere.

Etch-A-Sketches needed both plastic casings that had to be melted into shape off-site, and aluminium powder that had to be brought in from somewhere else. Tryggvi didn’t really care where - though it would be interesting to know, perhaps he should ask Pabbi - he was far too excited to just be able to _make_ them.

Etch-A-Sketches were one of his favourite toys to make. They required assembly, but they only had a few components to put together, all of which were relatively straightforward to do. Plus, until, say, toy trains or dolls, they didn’t need any extra painting detail, aside from a single logo which could be put on with a stamp. It was simple and easy, and something Triggvi could do well.

Just the thought had Tryggvi practically sprinting to the main production hall, almost bumping into several other Elves along the way. The other Elves however, were long used to his speedy ways, and many of them expertly dodged him without even having to look up - all of them wishing him a good morning as they went.

Pabbi was waiting for him when he got to the assembly tables, stood next to several trolleys full of plastic cases, pre-carved styluses, powder tins and spoons. He was checking the numbers, stroking the beard of his goatee as he looked over a clipboard.

Tryggvi grinned at the sight, rocking on his heels as he tried to reign in his excitement.

“Good morning, Tryggvi,” Íþró greeted his apprentice son with a nod, the corner if his mouth curled into a knowing smirk. “Are you ready for the Etch-A-Sketches today?”

“I’ve been waiting for these all year Pabbi, you know they’re one of my favourites.”

Íþró smiled warmly and set his clipboard on the trolley’s handle. “Oh I _do_ know,” he chuckled. “Ming is in charge of todays assembly,” he told Tryggvi, “there are a lot of Etch-A-Sketches to get through today - they’ve been in particularly high demand this year. Make sure you stay focused.”

“I will, Pabbi.” Tryggvi told him seriously. His stony-faced expression lasted for all of two seconds before he broke back out into a grin, “I want to get started straight away.” 

“Off you go then,” the older Elf said, nodding towards the front of the room, “I think Ming Ming is waiting.”

The apprentice turned his head, catching sight of another Elf standing near the first assembly table checking a rolled scroll. “Excellent!” Tryggvi chirruped, “I’ll see you later then, _Papa Elf.”_

Íþró thwacked him on the shoulder with his clipboard as he turned to go. “Don’t you sass me, Tryggvi.”

Tryggvi just snickered, shooting off towards the Elf in charge. 

Ming Ming looked up when he heard the apprentice approach. “Good morning Tryggvi.” 

“Good morning Ming Ming,” Tryggvi replied, beaming, “are you excited for the Etch-A-Sketches?”

Ming Ming smiled back. “I am indeed, Tryggvi. I’ll bet you are too.”

“Oh yes,” Tryggvi nodded enthusiastically, “I am, so very much. I’ve been waiting to make these again since finished the last batch last year!”

“That’s the spirit!” Ming Ming crowed, clapping the Elf on the shoulder. It was a bit of a reach, since Tryggvi was a little taller than all the others, but it was perfectly doable if the other stood on tiptoes. Tryggvi himself wasn’t sure _why_ he was taller, Pabbi said something about how his Mama had been taller than most, but it made him very good at basketball so Tryggvi was more than fine with a few extra inches.

Ming Ming pointed to an empty seat between Snickerdoodle and Elsabet. “There’s a station free there if you want to start now. You remember everything from last year, don’t you Sport?”

“I sure do!”

“Good, I’ll leave you to it then.” Ming Ming glanced at the pocket-watch hanging from his jacket, then up at the giant clock above the assembly room doors. “First check in is at eleven - that’s a little over three hours from now, guys.” He flicked his clipboard towards the clock on the wall. “Good making!” he wished, before heading off to attend to some other Elves further down he table.

“Are you excited for the Etch-A-Sketches, Tryggvi?” Elsabet asked him after he wished her and Snickerdoodle a good morning. 

“Oh yes, definitely,” Tryggvi told her, gathering up materials from the nearby trolley.

“I bet I'm going to make more,” Snickerdoodle boasted playfully, already having amassed a small pile of finished Sketches next to him.

“Not on my watch!” Elsabet squeaked. Her pile was already a few bigger.

Tryggvi bit his lip at the sight. Clearly he already had some catching up to do… Oh well. Some people were clearly even more eager than him! Contenting himself with the thought that more Etch-A-Sketches were good no matter _who_ made them, he sat down and got to work.

 

~*~

  

When Tryggvi next looked up, it was to see Ming Ming stood over his shoulder.

“Oh, hello Ming Ming,” he said, pausing in his flower drawing. He set down his Etch-A-Sketch, looking up at the supervising Elf.

Ming Ming didn’t look as cheerful as he had earlier; brows furrowed as he looked at the small stack of Etch-A-Sketches by Tryggvi’s side. 

For the first time that day, the permanent smile on Tryggvi’s face dimmed.

“Is- is something wrong Ming Ming?” the apprentice asked, “have I made a mistake with one of the Etch-A-Sketches?” A note of panic crept into his voice as he took a quick glance over his stack. “If there is, I’m sure I can fix it. I won’t fall _too_ far behind, I promise. I have _plenty_ of time until first count-“

“Tryggvi,” Ming Ming interrupted, “this _is_ first count.”

 _Oh._  

The smile disappeared from Tryggvi’s face entirely. “Wh- what?” He looked around, focusing properly on his surroundings for the first time since he’d sat down to start. Sure enough, the clock read four minuets past eleven and the other Elves had high piles of Etch-A-Sketches next to them, ready to be boxed up and taken to Storage and Sorting.

They were probably in the early hundreds by now, at least. Meanwhile Tryggvi hadn’t even filled ten boxes yet...

“I’m- I’m sorry Ming Ming,” he stuttered, “I-”

He was so sure that he’d been doing well, flying through assembly - he’d thought that only an hour or so had gone by, at most.

_Where had all the time gone?_

Sure, he liked to do a little bit of a more thorough testing than was necessary for Assembly - once complete, the Elves were meant to make a quick scribble, just a scrawl to make sure that the powder was pressed right, and that the stylus and wheels were properly in sync with each other before they gave it a shake. A quick test, barely a couple of seconds, before they moved onto the next. But Tryggvi liked to make extra sure that everything was working properly, something he felt a single random scribble couldn’t achieve. What if it could make random lines just fine, but when it came to proper precision it wasn’t lined up properly? Tryggvi liked to make doubly sure, so he always drew a small picture instead of a couple of messy lines. He might not be very _good_ at drawing with an Etch-A-Sketch, but even a very off kilter boat was a better judgement than a squiggle. It might take longer than a couple of seconds, but he always made sure not to take too long... barely a minuet, at the very most.

Though a couple _had_ been going really well, and it had been a shame to shake so early if he was on a real roll; it wasn’t often he could get that good of a drawing going.

Still, that couldn’t have taken up _all_ that time?

“Tryggvi,” Ming Ming asked, “how many Etch-A-Sketches _have_ you done?”

Tryggvi shuffled in his seat, not meeting Ming Ming’s eyes.

He supposed that maybe he’d spent a bit too long chatting to the other Elves when he went to gather new materials... or spent too long fiddling with things again before actually putting them to use... he just always found it so hard to sit _still_ \- even when making something he _really_ liked, he still had to get up and stretch his legs every so often, maybe do a few star-jumps or press-ups in the break room to burn off some energy and make him concentrate better, but he’d only ever been a minuet or two, tops!

“Tryggvi...” Ming Ming said gently.

Okay... maybe it had been longer than that. Gosh _darn,_ that meant he’d done it again. He’d gotten too distracted, lost focus at some point. He couldn’t believe this. He’d honestly thought he’d been doing well this time.

Feeling his face warm with shame, Tryggvi looked forlornly at the small pile of Etch-A-Sketches and mumbled the number he’d made.

“What was that?”

Tryggvi hunched in on himself, twiddling one of the styluses between his fingers.

“...Eighty-five,” he said quietly.

Production came to a halt.

The room fell silent, all sounds of toy-tinkering and levity ceasing completely as every single Elf in the room stopped working and turned to look at him.

His face burned under the scrutiny. He couldn’t _believe_ he’d fallen so far behind, _again._

“I’m sorry everybody,” Tryggvi said to the room, eyes on the Etch-A-Sketch parts in front of him. “I _really_ tried to stay focused and go fast, I promise I did - I guess I just lost track of time.”

It wasn’t quite an excuse, but it still felt flimsy to Tryggvi. He _hated_ letting people down, no matter what the reason. It made his chest tight and his skin prickle.

He let out a frustrated sigh, upset that once again, _he_ was the screw up.

“I hate this,” he announced, “I’m sorry guys, I keep trying but- I’m not getting any better, we all know it, I just keep messing up. You should all just face it; I’m not _going_ to get better - I’m a _terrible_ toy maker, the absolute _worst,_ I’m- I’m- I’m a _cotton-headed ninny-muggins!”_

Every Elf in the room gasped.

Elves never swore like that, and certainly never _Tryggvi._ Shocked glances were exchanged while Ming Ming put a comforting hand on Tryggvi’s shoulder. “Oh Tryggvi,” he said to the downtrodden apprentice, “you’re not a cotton-headed ninny-muggins - we all just have different talents, that’s all.”

Tryggvi’s nose crinkled. “None of you have trouble focusing or staying still,” he pointed out. “It seems like everybody here has the same talents except for me.” 

“Tryggvi,” Ming Ming sighed. “Listen, you’re not a terrible toy maker. You’re a very _good_ toy maker, in fact. Everything you make is always _superb_ quality, look,” he picked up one of Tryggvi’s Etch-A-Sketches and handed it to him. “This is one of the best Etches made today; I know that because _you_ made it. You make good toys Tryggvi, it just takes a while.”

“But we don’t _have_ a while,” Tryggvi argued, “it’s nearly Christmas! I still can’t keep up with everyone else - and I’ve been making toys for years.”

“Well _I_ say that it’s quality over quantity,” Elsabet piped up. “I’d rather you made eighty-five wonderful toys than four hundred rubbish ones.” 

Ming Ming nodded. “As would Santa. Tryggvi, you’re a good toy maker. So you’re not the fastest at it - so what! You’re the fastest _runner_ the Pole’s ever seen! That has to count for something, right?” 

“Uh-huh!” Snickerdoodle chimed in, “you’re the best sports player ever!”

“Exactly! Why do you think we call you Sportacus, Sportacus?” Ming Ming chuckled. 

“You’re the only one besides Papa Elf that Santa lets work on his sleigh,” Álfmey said from the table across, “he only lets super good mechanics do that.”

“And you’re the only one besides Santa who doesn’t have to use all the steps on the ladder to change the clock batteries!” Elsabet added, which made Tryggvi giggle.

A small smile appeared on Tryggvi’s face, his heart warmed by all the kind, genuine words from his fellow Elves.

“See Sport,” Ming Ming said, “you have lots of special talents that we don’t have, and lots we do. You make _really good_ toys Tryggvi, I promise, you’re just not so great with the longer jobs. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, it just means that maybe the main assembly line isn’t the right place for you.” He patted Tryggvi heartily on the back. “Why don’t you take a break, get a drink, maybe burn off some energy, and then come back later and get as many of these Etch-A-Sketches as you can, and then later on we’ll talk to Santa about things you can do that won’t be as difficult, eh? How does that sound?”

Tryggvi nodded, placing the Etch-A-Sketch Ming Ming had given him earlier back on its pile and standing. “That’s nice of you Ming Ming, thank you. And thank you everyone, those were... a lot of very sweet things you all said.”

“It’s alright, Sporty,” Elsabet smiled at him, “it’s nothing that wasn’t true.”

Sportacus beamed at them as he headed off to take his break.

 

~*~

 

A few hours later, Tryggvi was back at the assembly table again, making Etch-A-Sketches.

He still hadn’t caught up to the others - wasn’t anywhere even _close_ to catching up in fact - but the pressure he felt to do as much as the others was lessened greatly and it felt wonderful. He moved at his own pace, moving about as and when he needed to, and by the end of the day he’d broken three hundred. It might not have been the thousands the other Elves were working to, but it was still much more than he’d done that morning and that felt pretty good to him.

Elsabet was right; he felt better putting out toys he knew were good and worked right instead of trying to push himself too far and making bad ones.

Plus, Ming Ming seemed pleased with what he’d done even though he was leagues behind everyone else, and that was _more_ than satisfying.

It made Tryggvi wonder if he could continue like that. Just making as many toys as he could, without a proper number goal. He’d thought it sounded a little selfish at first, but it could work. After all, Elves were expert toymakers, but they weren’t perfect. Loads of toys didn’t make it through the testing process, which meant that the total number of toys made didn’t equal the number of toys able to be given to children. Tryggvi could make up the extra.

He could make the toys that would be needed to replace the ones that didn’t work. It was perfect! He wouldn’t need to make as many toys as the others did, but he still wouldn’t be giving up toymaking, which he really did love. Plus, he could probably work to his own pace, which meant he could take as many press-up breaks as he needed!

It was a very good plan, one he was proud to have come up with himself. It saved Santa and Ming Ming having to go through the trouble of truing to find a new job for him, so close to Christmas.

Still, he would run it by his Pabbi first, just incase there were some problems with it, or reasons he couldn’t do that. It didn’t seem like there would be, but you never knew, and Tryggvi didn’t want to go to Santa and Ming Ming with a plan that would never work.

He paused in his crunches, laid on his back behind a wall of toys by the break table. He’d stopped off for a glass of orange juice and some exercise before going to tell Pabbi his big plan, figuring he’d give it a few minuets until he was sure Íþró would be done with work.

Someone had entered the break-room. Tryggvi stood, intending on saying hello - from the small gaps between the shelves he could see that at least one of the people was Ming Ming. He set his hand on a toy soldier to move it aside, when he noticed that Ming Ming was already having a conversation.

“-orry about the extra work today,” he was saying. There was a weariness to his voice that Tryggvi didn’t like.

Poor Ming Ming. Maybe he should speak to Santa about the supervisor having so much work.

“It’s fine,” his partner said - was that Dagnýr? “Me and the others don’t mind picking up a little extra slack, not when it’s for Tryggvi. The guy’s trying his best, we all know that.”

Tryggvi’s stomach sank. He pulled back his hand, leaving the toy soldier blocking view of him, and sank back against the wall behind the shelf. 

“I know,” Ming Ming continued, “thank you. It’s not easy for him, tying to do this kind of job with that kind of focus.”

Dagnýr seemed sympathetic. “Yeah, it must be rough. You think it’s ‘cause of... you know?”

Tryggvi was confused. _Because of what?_

“I don’t know,” Ming Ming said, shrug audible. “It makes sense, he’s the only one having trouble focusing.”

“You think Íþró will ever tell him?” Dagnýr asked.

“What, that he’s half human?”

Tryggvi stopped breathing.

Ming Ming scoffed. “I don’t think so. If he hasn’t told him by now, I don’t think he ever will.”

Dagnýr gave a considering hum. “After today though... well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t realise something was up. Poor kid, he _knows_ he’s different, I just don’t think-”

The whistle signalling the end of the day’s work sounded through the Pole, cutting off anything else the two Elves were going to say. 

“Good grief,” Ming Ming said, “I didn’t realise that was the time.” There was the sound of something hitting fabric lightly - probably a shoulder pat. “I have to get to Sorting, make sure everything’s arrived. I’ll see you tomorrow Dag.”

“See you Ming Ming!”

There was shuffling, the sound of Elven shoes on wood, and then silence as the two left the room.

Tryggvi couldn’t breathe. His heart was pounding and he felt dizzy, the colours of the toys in front of him blending in and out of each other. Surely that... what he’d just heard... it couldn’t be true?

Could it?

He had to speak to Pabbi. He would know, and he would tell him. Even if it was true, or not - which ever way the coin fell, Íþró would tell him, if he asked. So Tryggvi did what the Elves had named him for; he _ran._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol this entire chapter was meant to be like 4 paragraphs MAX before the tru start of ch 2 but then I(thro) got Emotional so. :/

Tryggvi didn’t stop running until he was safely in his house, plowing through the snow with incredible speed. He ignored any Elves that he passed, paying them no mind when they tried to ask him where he was going, what he was doing, was something wrong?

_‘Yes,’_ Tryggvi thought as he ran, _‘something was very wrong indeed.’_  
   
When he burst through the front door of his and his Pabbi’s home, Pabbi was nowhere to be seen. Tryggvi stood in the doorway, ignoring the snow he’d trampled inside as he looked around, but Íþró wasn’t there. Shutting the front door, Tryggvi searched the house; looking in the kitchen, Pabbi’s office, his bedroom, his Pabbi’s bedroom and both bathrooms.  
   
Íþró wasn’t there.  
   
So Tryggvi decided to wait. He didn’t want to run off around the town only to have Pabbi turn up at home while he was out. No, he wanted to clear things up the moment Íþró came home. So Tryggvi plonked himself down on the couch and waited, staring at the door.  
   
After five minuets though, the door still didn’t open and Tryggvi started to get restless. He jiggled his knee, still watching the door, but when another couple of minuets went by with no sign of Pabbi, he moved onto press-ups, then crunches. After nearly fifteen minuets of waiting, Tryggvi couldn’t do it anymore - and that’s when he remembered the photograph in his Pabbi’s office.  
   
The photo, one Tryggvi had looked at so often he could now recall it perfectly, was of his Pabbi and his Mama; Sarah sat with both her legs swung up over Íþró's lap while his Pabbi had his arms around her, the two of them snuggled tight while Pabbi pressed his nose into her cheek. Both had been laughing, the brightest smiles Tryggvi had ever seen on their faces.  
   
Tryggvi had never seen his Pabbi smile like that.  
   
He could recall every single fine detail of the picture - of his Mama, but now the picture didn’t seem right in his head. His Pabbi was definitely an Elf - he had the ears and the toy-making skills to prove it, even if his love of sports and gymnastics went a bit beyond normal Elf enthusiasm. Mama however…  
   
Tryggvi knew she’d been taller than Pabbi. That much was evident in the photo, Pabbi having to crane his neck a bit to be able to press his face to her cheek. But it wasn’t an _unreasonable_ height difference - there had been tall Elves before, even ones as tall as Tryggvi, though not for a few generations now. Mama could surely just have been a tall Elf.  
   
Her ears would of course prove the matter immediately, but Tryggvi didn’t remember seeing her ears at all on the photo; they were covered by her long, light brown hair, weren’t they?  
   
Tryggvi wasn’t so sure anymore. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.  
   
Unable to wait for Pabbi any longer with such a thought burning in his brain he leapt up off the sofa and raced into his Pabbi’s office.  
   
The photo was on his desk, as it had been since Tryggvi could remember, and he picked it up, eyes drinking in the familiar image. There was his Pabbi, holding his Mama in his arms. His Mama, with her wavy hair covering any trace of ear, pointed or not, from his sight.  
   
Tryggvi let out a sharp noise of pure frustration. Now he really _would_ have to wait until Pabbi got home.  
   
He set the photo carefully back down on the desk. He was upset, yes, at the situation and at his Pabbi for possibly keeping quite large secrets, but he would never take that out on a photo of his mother. He wouldn’t do that to her memory, or to his Pabbi’s. He just wasn’t like that.  
   
As he put the frame down though he noticed another photo beside it, one he’d never seen before. The photo had people in it - three, none he recognised - and sat on top of a letter, hand-written on yellow paper.  
   
Before he really thought about it he’d picked up the little photo, looking at the people on it. It was somewhere snowy - at first Tryggvi thought it might be the Pole, but the buildings in the background were much too tall. The three people were wrapped up tightly in thick clothing, the man in a gigantic sunny yellow puff jacket with a matching hat, and pink mittens, and the woman next to him had a dusky lilac-pink hat over her blue hair, her red peacoat buttoned all the way up to her blue scarf, while the smallest of the three bedecked in nothing but pink - except their mittens, which were yellow. He could barely see the littlest’s face for the huge bobble hat and triple-wrapped scarf, but he could tell that they were smiling. They all were, the older couple beaming into the camera as they held hands with the smaller one.  
   
 _‘Why on Earth does Pabbi have this picture?’_ Tryggvi wondered. He didn’t know who any of the people were in it - did his Pabbi?  
   
He picked up the letter underneath. He didn’t really want to read it, it felt like a huge invasion of his Pabbi’s privacy and that thought made Tryggvi _very_ uncomfortable, but the letter and the picture were obviously connected; maybe the names of the people were in the letter.  
   
 _'Íþróttaálfurinn,'_ the letter read, and Tryggvi was immediately taken aback. _No-one_ called his Pabbi by his full name except Santa - Tryggvi didn't even think that anybody else even remembered what it _was_ anymore, aside from himself and a couple of the more senior elves.

Now even more curious, Tryggvi continued to read.

_'My apologies for the late reply this time, work has been unbelievably busy, one of our new books has just been set to launch this week._

_How are things up there? Have you moved on from bouncy balls and bats yet? I always forget what December brings…'_  
   
Was this an Elf from another factory? It didn’t seem like it - every Elf knew the toy schedule for that year, they practically had it memorised the year before! Perhaps it was from an Elf in Social. They interacted with human society much more than they did the Elves, finding out which toys were likely to be more in demand during the early months and predicting numbers. Still, Tryggvi didn’t know of any friends his Pabbi had in Social.  
   
 _'Whatever it is, I’m sure Stephanie will want something from November’s production, she does so love her sports.'_  
   
Sport grinned from ear to ear. He had no idea who this Stephanie person was - though he could guess they were a child - but he already liked her.  
   
 _'On the vein of presents… I’m eternally grateful for what you did last year, by the way. I know how all-seeing things are up there, but I was still so worried about such a sudden change of address, and after what happened with her parents… Having a good Christmas really helped her settle in, and I can’t thank you enough for that.  
   
Oh, did you know? I don’t remember if I mentioned it in another letter, but the paperwork for Stephanie’s transferral went through a year ago today! Doesn’t time go by so fast? It’s strange, in some ways it feels like she’s been here forever, but in others it feels like she arrived only yesterday.  
   
Speaking - or I suppose, writing - of Stephanie… we told her about yourself and Tryggvi. She found a picture of you and Sarah and, well, we just couldn’t hide two family members from her, not after she’s lost so many already. We showed her the picture of Tryggvi you sent last month - hasn’t he grown! - and she would love to meet him, but Bessie and I understand that the two of you will be far too busy to come down from the Pole. Perhaps he could write instead? It would be nice to hear from him, for all of us.'_  
   
Tryggvi almost dropped the letter in shock, nose scrunching as he squinted at the letter in confusion. They wanted him to write to them? Why? How did they know him? How did they know _Pabbi?_  
   
 _‘A picture of you and Sarah.’_  
   
 _Sarah…?_ Why did these people have a picture of his parents!  
   
He quickly read through the rest of the letter, scanning the contents to see if there was anything that would answer his questions. He found none. The rest of the letter simply went on to say how Milford wished for more time off over Christmas - even though he suspected he wouldn’t get any - to spend with his family; how Bessie’s Nail Technician course (whatever one of _those_ was) down at the collage was going well; and how Stephanie was in line for another ribbon - to… tie her hair back?  
   
Honestly, the rest of the letter just left him with even _more_ questions!

Tryggvi turned, practically bursting with the desire to understand everything and ready to search the entire North Pole until he found his Pabbi. But he wouldn't have to. Íþró was standing frozen in the doorway, face pale as he stared at the letter and photo clutched in his son's hand.  
   
 _"Pabbi,"_ Tryggvi breathed, equal parts relieved and upset. Finally, someone who had answers - just perhaps not answers he would like. "Pabbi, who _are_ these people?" he desperately demanded. "Who are Milford and Bessie? And Stephanie?"  
   
Íþró was silent for a moment, paralysed by the unexpectedness of the situation, before he let out a long weary sigh. His body lost so much of its tension so quickly that for a moment Tryggvi thought his Pabbi would fall, but Íþró only gave a slight sway before stepping towards his son, shoulders uncharacteristically lax and low as he gently took the polaroid from his hands, rubbing a thumb lightly down the edge. “Milford and Bessie,” he said, pointing to the slightly rotund man and the blue haired woman, “are your aunt and uncle.” He pointed to the pink haired girl smiling between the two of them. “And Stephanie is their… Stephanie is your cousin.”  
   
Tryggvi stepped back in shock, mouth falling open. They- they were-

“I have an aunt and uncle? And a _cousin?”_ he asked breathlessly, unable to deal with the revelation that Íþró apparently had siblings on top of all the other turmoil that day. “You have-”  
   
“They’re humans.”  
   
The remainder of Tryggvi's sentence left him in a whoosh of soundless air.

Humans. They were _humans._ And they were his family, his relatives, but _not_ his Pabbi's, which meant- which meant-  
   
“It's true then.”  
   
Íþró's guiltily sorrowful expression turned to one of alarm. “I- wait, Tryggvi, you’ve heard this before?”  
   
Tryggvi nodded. “Today. I- I Heard somebody talking about it in the breakroom. They didn’t see me. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I didn’t want to interrupt their conversation and well, then they brought up that.”  
   
Íþró groaned quietly and rubbed a hand over his brow. "Gods..."  
   
“It is true, isn't it Pabbi. Mama was a human. I’m a human.”  
   
“Half-human,” Íþró corrected, obliterating Tryggvi's entire sense of self in less than a sentence.“Yes, Tryggvi I- my boy I'm so sorry. I never intended for you to find out through someone else's random conversation.”  
   
Tryggvi scoffed, crossing his arms. “You never meant for me to find out at _all!”_ he accused.  
   
“I _did!”_ Íþró insisted loudly, “it- it was just never the right _time-”_  
   
“But everyone _else_ knew?” Tryggvi yelled, possibly the first time he’d ever raised his voice to his Pabbi. “You told everybody else however long ago, maybe years, maybe since the _start_ \- but _I_ have to find out _now?!”_  
   
Íþró reached out to lay a hand on his son's shoulder but the younger Elf dodged, ducking away from his Pabbi's touch. “I’m sorry," Íþró said, "Tryggvi, I'm so sorry-"  
   
 _“Why?"_ Tryggvi demanded, ignoring his Pabbi's apologies, "why did _everyone else_ know before me? _Tell me_ Pabbi!”  
   
“Because- _because they knew about your_ _mother!”_ Íþró shouted.

Tryggvi blinked. "What?"  
   
Íþró sighed again, taking off his hat to run a hand through his hair as he sat on the edge of his desk. He looked more worn than Tryggvi had ever seen. “They knew I was seeing a human,” he explained, voice back to its normal volume, if a little strained. “I didn’t always used to be ‘Papa Elf’, you know. I used to be part of Social.”  
   
“Y- you did?” Tryggvi spluttered. He could never imagine his Pabbi working for the Social teams. He’d been away a few times to go check on other factories across the Pole, and once or twice in other country, but a job so closely involved with the humans? Tryggvi couldn’t picture it.  
   
Íþró nodded. “I did," he confirmed, "and one of the most important sites to visit was America; specifically, New  
York. Sarah - your mother - was one of the people I interviewed. Everybody we talked to was randomly chosen, I had no idea who she was or what she did, or even her name until I started interviewing her, where I discovered that she’d just moved to the city to be closer to her brother. I... I was trying to be polite, it was part of Social training, so I asked her how she was finding it - I didn't want my interviews to just be Christmas interrogations. She told me that she didn't know the city very well, and it being one of my first times in New York, neither did I. I told her that; I said we were both as lost as each other, then. And since she was my last interview, and Santa had given the rest of the Social Elves the night of to explore, Sarah and I decided to explore the city together.” Íþró's eyes flickered to the picture frame on the desk. There was a small, barely there smile on his face. “By the end of the night, I just- I just knew that there was something there. I’d never found anything like it back home, never had any connection like that with any of the Elves back home. So… I told her," he shrugged, laughing at his own youthful idiocy. "I told her what I was, that I was an Elf.”  
   
“How did she take it,” Tryggvi asked quietly. Pabbi hardly ever talked about his Mama. It was too hard for him. He’d never get more than a few sentences in before his eyes reddended and he had to turn away. Tryggvi had hoarded each and every scrap of information about his Mama that Pabbi had ever given him; what she liked, what she didn’t, how she was.  
   
Now Pabbi had said more in the past five minuets than in Tryggvi's entire life, and Tryggvi didn’t know how to feel about that. On one hand, he was greedily drinking in every single thing his Pabbi said, thrilled to bits to finally gaining information on his Mama and her history with Pabbi. On the other hand though, it had taken Tryggvi finding out that half of his genetic makeup was from a completely different species for his Pabbi to open up about her.  
   
 _“Unbelivably,”_ Pabbi replied, a kind of smile Tryggvi had never seen appearing on his face. It was bright and happy, but still tinged with sadness. “She just laughed and said, ‘I know.’ After all, I had spent twenty kinuets asking her about her experiences with Santa and Christmas - both from childhood and adulthood. She thought I was the best actor she’d ever seen - too good, in fact - so when I told her I was a real actual Elf, she wasn’t that surprised.” He snorted, smiling profoundly at the picture of Sarah and himself. “She was so smart.”  
   
“Like me?” Tryggvi asked, and Íþró snickered.  
   
“Yes," he said dryly, "too smart for your own good. Anyway, she and I spent most of the night together, and once I was done with my interviews, the next day too. But then I had to leave.”  
   
“Oh.”  
   
“Yes." Íþró said quietly. "She understood - she didn’t like it, neither of us did, but she understood. I promised to come back as soon as I was able, and until then… I gave her the adress to the North Pole. The real one.”  
   
“You _didn’t,"_ Tryggvi gasped, positively scandalised.  
   
Of course, all humans new the adress to the north pole, they wrote letters to it every christmas - but those all went to a specific sorting office. To get mail to santa himself before christmas, or to any of the Elves, a soecial code and adress had to be used. And humans were certainly never to be given it.  
   
“I did.”

_‘What a rebel,’_ Tryggvi thought.  
   
“We wrote back and forth until I could come back - I made several petitions to Santa for extra trips to New York for intervewis. I said that the biggest countries should have more focus on them, more data gathered. The other Elves had cottoned on that I didn't simply want to go back for interviews - though only a few had worked out that it wasn't for another Elf - and they helped me out by also asking Santa for extra interviews. It helped, of course, that they actually agreed with my opinion that the larger countries and cities should have more data," Íþró said wryly. "But either way, it worked! …Even though it meant I had to do extra interviews in other states too.”  
   
Tryggvi snorted.  
   
“Santa had figured it out from day one, of course, but he let me squirm for a couple of years until he just gave up and told me he knew.” Íþró rolled his eyes. “After that though things became a bit easier. Santa gave me weeks off, as long as I put the toymaking time in before hand, so I could go and visit Sarah. He lent me his ship-”  
   
“He gave you his _airship!?”_ Tryggvi shrieked, in awe. The airship was the vessel used in place of the Sleigh in the summer months, when Christmas cheer wasn't so high and Santa needed to travel. It had been made before technology had advanced enough to make engines and things, like the ones that the Sleigh itself was now fitted with to make it usable all year round, but that beautiful lady had been all pedal-power and Christmas cheer, and Tryggvi had only ever had the pleasure lf being aboard once to patch a punctured balloon. He was pretty sure it had been the best day of his life.  
   
“Yes,” Íþró grinned. “It made the journey a lot quicker and easier, instead of having to go across the water, through the seven levels of-”  
   
“-Of the candycane forests and past the sea of swirly whirly gumdrops," Tryggvi interrupted. "Yes Pabbi, I know how to get to the human world.”  
   
“Sass,” Íþró remarked.  
   
“I just found out I'm half human," Tryggvi snarked, "I can sass if I want.”  
   
Íþró winced. “Fair enough. So I got to see your Mama as much as I wished, within the demands of my job anyway. We were together for almost seven years… and then we got married,” he said softly, reaching into the collar of his work jacket and pulling out three golden rings on a chain, the middle one with a very light blue stone set into the middle of the band. Tryggvi sucked in a sharp breath. He'd never seen those before.

Or had he?

Vague, hazy memories permeated his brain, ones from when he was much, much younger - barely a toddler as he burst into his Pabbi's room, having once again escaped his cot, to climb up under the covers of the bed. He remembered seeing gold things around his Pabbi's bare chest and picking them up, clumsily playing with them in his tiny fingers. He had always been gently stopped when he tried to put them in his mouth, and when he'd asked what they were, his Pabbi had just replied; _"they were your Mama's, Tryggvi."_

He'd forgotten about that until now.

"You- you were married?" Tryggvi asked. He'd never actually thought about it before. His Mama and Pabbi were just, well, Mama and Pabbi. They weren't married, but they weren't not married either. They had just always been a set, when he thought about them, joined through having him.

Íþró nodded. “For all intents and purposes anyway. I gave her a ring, she called herself my wife and I her husband… it wasn’t official, we didn’t know a way for me to become registered as a human in her world, but it was official enough - real enough - for us.” He rubbed his finger over one of the plain gold rings - the smaller one, probably his Mama’s wedding band. After a moment he put it back under his shirt.

Tryggvi already missed it.

After the few second silence, Íþró continued with his story. “Then ten months later, we found out you were going to join us and we thought, this just doesn’t work anymore. So we planned to move. Here. Permanently.”  
   
Teyggvi’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Mama was going to live here? In the North Pole?”  
   
Íþró nodded.  
   
His son was baffled. “But humans-”  
   
“I know,” Íþró said, cutting him off. “But with a baby… it wouldn’t have been fair to you. It already wasn’t fair to her to only see me every few months, neither of us could do that to you too. So I spoke to Santa, and he agreed that she could move here. We started working on packing; she would sell her house and give the money to her brother so he and his fiancé could move somewhere better, and I started building this place.” He gestured to the house they were in. “This used to be the lounge, you know.”  
   
Tryggvi grimaced, wrinklin his nose as he looked around disbelievingly. “Really? But it‘s _tiny.”_ (Well, compared to their actual lounge it was.)  
   
His Pabbi laughed heartily, “Exactly, my boy - this was a bachelor pad, once; it _was_ tiny! No room for a wife, and certainly no room for a you. So I started building. By that time, all the Elves knew that I was bringing a human to the North Pole, that the woman I had been seeing wasn't just another Elf from a different branch of Social or in another factory. I think most were confuse, but for the most part, I think people were just glad to see me happy. Some of them even offered to help me with the house, to have it ready in time for the two of you to arrive - even Santa helped me attach a couple of the doors. He helped with your crib, you know."

Tryggvi hadn't.

The grin on Íþró’s fave slowly began to dim as he continued. "However, two weeks before Christmas, one of the most popular toys - one we’d made hundreds of thousands of units for - was suddenly struck off almost every child’s list and replaced with something we hadn’t thought would even make it into the top One Thousand Toys that year.”

“Good grief,” Tryggvi whispered, stunned. He’d never had anything like that happen during his time making toys.

“We went into overdrive,” Íþró told him. “Every Elf was on the production floor almost every hour. Your Mama and I had planned to have moved by Christmas, so Sarah could be settled in the house in time for you to arrive. I had to push it back. By the time the rush was over - Sarah was sick, and you were on your way.”

Íþró’s voice grew stiff.

“I still don’t really know what happened. One minuet I was telling Santa that I needed to go to Sarah and the next, there was a letter in my hand saying that she was gone, and that you’d already arrived.”

His Pabbi’s eyes were on the floor, but Tryggvi could still see the tears welling up there. 

“It was Christmas eve,” Íþró said quietly.  
   
Tryggvi wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Instead, he let his Pabbi have his moment, staying quiet until Íþró looked like gathered himself a little.  
   
“How old was I?” he asked, “When you took me home?”  
   
“Five hours,” his Pabbi told him. “Four when I met you for the first time. You were so tiny... When you weren’t wrapped in a blanket I could fit you in both my palms.” The corner of his lip twiched upwards, and Tryggvi was relieved to see it. “You were born on December 24th, at One Thirty-Eight pm. Thirteen days late - if you’d have waited another day, they’d’ve had to induce your Mama, and you would have been born on Christmas day.”  
   
“I would?”  
   
“Mhm,” Íþró agreed, nodding. “Milford said it was snowing outside the hospital when you were born.”  
   
_Milford._  
   
Tryggvi stopped smiling. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he asked softly. “About them, about- about Mama, about Mama being human?”  
   
Íþró groaned softly in frustration. “There were- Gods Tryggvi, there were so many reasons. Panic was part of it, and confusion. Guilt was another. Denial, too - and fear.”

That... wasn’t an explanation. What did that have to do with anything? “I don’t understand,” he told his Pabbi.  
   
Íþró rubbed a hand over his face, struggling to word things. “When I heard your mother had died,” he said eventually, “I didn’t really know how to process it. There were only two thoughts in my head - the first was that Sarah was gone. She- she wasn’t _here_ anymore. I hadn’t seen it, I wasn’t _there_ for her - I found out by letter.” His voice grew rougher with anger and grief until he had to stop for a moment. “It didn’t truly sink in that I wouldn’t see her ever again until later on. The second, was you. I realised that I had to take care of you - you were still living, Tryggvi. You became my priority and, well, I didn’t really have time to sit down and process what had happened to Sarah. I had to get to you. So I went. Milford and Bessie had gone to Sarah’s house. They’d- they’d been with her at the hospital and after… what had happened, they took you to her house to wait for me. When I got there, we… we discussed what to do. How to handle things.” Íþró's mouth became a tight, thin line under his moustache. “They offered to raise you. They weren’t trying to take you, but they knew how busy life at the Pole was for me, and how difficult it would be to raise you on my own. I-” Íþró broke off, running a hand though his wild curls.  
   
“Tryggvi I nearly let them,” he blurted. “I’m sorry. Please understand," he begged, "I was terrified. I had only found out that Sarah had died two hours before. I didn’t know how to raise a child - not without your Mama. I was terrified of getting something wrong, something important. I thought, _‘I don’t think I can do this on my own, would he be better off with them?’"_ He gave a weak, almost hysterical laugh. "But I didn’t want to do it. I had just lost Sarah, I didn’t- I- I _couldn’t_ lose you as well, not when I had the choice. So I said no. And then I panicked, thinking I’d made a rash decision, that I had chosen selfishness over what was best for you and that I would have to swallow my pride and take it back - which I’m genuinely sure I could’ve done, especially back then. You ah, you know how stubborn I could- _can_ be,” he said sheepishly.

Boy, did Tryggvi _ever._  
   
“But I didn’t have to take it back in the end. While I was wondering how on earth I was going to take care of you on my own, Santa reminded me that I wouldn’t have to. I had a whole Pole full of Elves to help out, and I had him too.”  
   
Tryggvi remembered spending a lot of his time with other Elves as a child, helping sort presents and fetch things for toymaking, as well as being babysat on their breaks. Santa too - he had many fond memories if being looked after by the jolly man, having tea and snacks with Mrs Claus, sitting in his chair or on his lap and watching the Elves scurry about. (While attached to a set of high-strength baby reins of course - when Tryggvi had learned that his legs and hands could be used for moving his body places he had become almost unstoppable.) He’d been allowed to sit in Santa’s sleigh, to help put toys in the sack on Christmas eve - a Birthday treat, he’d always said - and when Íþró had started training him up to work on the Sleigh’s engine, Santa hadn’t batted an eyelid.  
   
“It helped. I started thinking that I could do this, and I got to keep you, with me. And- and then I saw your ears. Your tiny little ears and I knew - or at least I thought I knew - that I'd made the right decision.” A sense of fondness slipped into his voice, warming his tone. “You had my ears.” he broke out into a self-mocking laugh. “My gods," he shook his head, "I was such a fool. I saw two little points and I thought, _‘he’s an Elf’!_ I thought it was an ‘either or’ situation, that you would’ve been born wither a human or an Elf. Not both, not half-and-half, just one or the other.” Íþró closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. “I would like to remind you," he ground out in embarrassment, "that I was a quite a bit younger and rather dumb. Honestly, I don’t know how your Mama ever put up with me," he huffed. “I thought that it would be best if you went to live in the Pole with me - with other Elves. I didn’t know what growing up with humans would be like for an Elf. I thought you’d struggle, so I thought it would be best if you were raised among your own kind.”  
   
“But why didn’t you _tell_ me about the others?” Tryggvi pressed, "you could have at least told me they _existed."_  
   
Íþró grimaced. He folded his hands together, rubbing his thumb against his palm. It was a tic that Tryggvi had only ever seen when his Pabbi was nervous or stressed, which didn’t happen very often.  
   
“I _couldn't,_ Tryggvi," he insisted. "I... I loved your Mama her very much, you understand. I loved her with everything I had, and what little time I had with her when I still worked in Social, I treasured. But I was _selfish_ , Tryggvi. I never met her family, not properly. I’d seen them at gatherings and parties over the years, enough to know their names and faces and some little facts about their lives. I could carry on a short conversation with them, but I didn’t _know_ them. I had such little time with her when I had it at all, I didn’t want to spend it them when I could spend it with her." Pabbi's gaze returned to the floor. "I didn’t realise until after she was gone; until I had you in my arms and Milford and Bessie were offering to take you in and raise you. Those people Sarah had loved so much and been so close to... they were _strangers_ to me. Even though for a few seconds I thought it might be for the best, I couldn’t do it, because I couldn’t fathom the thought of handing you to people that I didn’t know - and that absolutely terrified me, because I _didn’t_ know them and I _should have."_  
   
He reached forward and took his son's hand. "Having you forced me to realise how selfish I’d been and I felt guilty, Tryggvi, _so_ guilty, and when I was there to get you, I felt I’d missed my chance. I didn’t know how to even _begin_ to connect to them without Sarah. But when I took you home, I realised I needed to make a change. So I started writing letters. It took me a few months to muster up the courage, but I did it. It was tentative at first, most of the letters short and simple, but eventually I stopped being so hesitant. After all, I had a lot to talk about. I told them everything that happened as you grew up, for the most part, and that’s when I realised I could never tell you about them.”

"But _why_ Pabbi?" Tryggvi insisted.  
   
“Your personality developed,” Íþró said simply. “And I knew that if I told you about Bessie and Milford, you’d want to see them - and I just _couldn’t_ allow that to happen, because I worked so hard to keep you happy, to make you feel normal. If you want to the human world and- and you didn’t understand or weren't able to connect with your human family? It would have broken your little heart and I just couldn’t do it Tryggvi. I didn’t want you thinking that there was something _wrong_ with you.”  
   
“But there _is_ something wrong with me!” Tryggvi exclaimed, yanking his hand from his Pabbi's to gesture harshly at himself.

“There is _not,”_ Íþró said sharply. “Different? Yes. But it was _never_ a case of something being _wrong_ with you, and I knew that if you went there to the human world then you would think it was.”  
   
“Why?" Tryggvi demanded, hurt by his Pabbi's apparent lack of belief in him. "Why were you _so_ sure that I wouldn’t blend in? That I couldn't-”  
   
“Because _I_ couldn’t!" Íþró shouted, clenching his fists. He forced out a breath, flexing his fingers until he calmed down. "I regretted not trying to get to know Sarah’s family earlier, but whenever I was with them, I never knew how to speak to them. Their culture was just so different from ours - I never understood it like I did when I was with Sarah. even when I started to write the letters, it took almost three years for me to be able to talk about anything that wasn’t you. And you… you look so much like me, I- I assumed that you wouldn’t know how to connect to them either. I saw your sandy curls, your ears, and decided that you would be better off at the Pole, where you would be around what I thought were your people. I was afraid of how being different would alienate you if you stayed in the human world, I-” he gave a short, sharp laugh, tears pricking at his eyes again. “Gods, I didn’t even _consider_ that you would feel different here, and then when it happened I- I didn't- I couldn't- darn it.” He pressed his fists to his eyes, struggling not to cry and Tryggvi frowned in concern, reaching to put a steadying hand on his Pabbi's back.

It was an upsetting conversation to be sure, but Tryggvi had never seen his Pabbi so emotional before. He was barely holding it together, and seeing him like this, when he was normally such an unbreakable pillar of strength unsettled Tryggvi deeply.

"It's alright Pabbi," he said, trying to be as soothing as possible, but Íþró cut him off.

"No it's _not,"_ he bit out, shaking his head, "I'm not blind you know. I began to notice things, as you grew up. You were always wonderful with sports of course, and good with mechanics, but toy making was always so darn _difficult_ for you. You’re good, Tryggvi, there’s no denying that; you’ve always been quick and creative, but constant work making toys? It wasn’t for you, and the other Elves and I knew from when you were running around in nappies, physically unable to keep still for more than five minuets without getting restless and needing to run around and move. You didn’t have the attention span for it - the long hours ruined it for you. The other Elves knew as well as I did, and I know they wondered if they should say something, if they should try and suggest other options - but I stayed silent, I pretended like nothing was wrong and at that point? After I'd lost my wife and become my superior, none of them would go against me. They wouldn't _dare_ try and tell me that my child wasn't cut out to be a proper Elf, that there was something _wrong_ with you - because that's what they would have meant, no matter how _nicely_ they worded it," Íþró snarled, tears finally reaching their limit and spilling down onto his cheeks.

"I didn't care if you couldn't make as many toys, or weren't able to sit still for more than thirty minutes, there would _never_ be anything wrong with you to me,” he declared. “But I could never admit to myself that you were different because that would mean that I had made a mistake in bringing you here, in trying to raise you as an Elf and nothing _but_ an Elf. It was a mistake I didn’t know how to fix - I certainly wasn’t going to send you away, I couldn’t, no matter how different you were, you were my _son._ You were _Sarah’s son._ So I pretended that I hadn’t made a mistake at all. That you were fine, that there was nothing different about you at all, even as I watched it dishearten you every day when you realised you couldn’t keep up, no matter what you did to stay focused, because I was too much of a gosh darn _coward_ to admit to myself that I was _wrong_ all those years ago, when I looked at you when you weren’t even _half a day old,_ and thought that I could just raise you as an Elf and everything would be hunky dory,” he panted, breathless after his rant.

“But I didn‘t have a _clue._ You were brand new, a whole other _species_ \- I had no _idea_ what you would be like!” Íþró exploded. “You couldn’t even eat _candy_ for Gods sake! The first year of your life was just milk and fruit juice! You were so clearly different, but I buried my head in the sand and insisted to myself that you were still a proper Elf, just a late bloomer, that your Mama being a human didn’t mean anything - didn’t impact you in _any_ way.” He buried his head in his hands, fingers curling into his scalp and getting tangled in his hair. “Gods I was such a _fool,_ such an utter _idiot._ I just kept denying and hiding what was so _obvious,_ even though it was _hurting_ you, because I didn’t know how to climb out of the labyrinth of holes I'd dug myself into and face up to the fact that I’d set you up to fail before you’d even _started.”_

He was openly sobbing now, and Tryggvi felt tears prick at his own eyes as he pulled his Pabbi properly into his arms, holding him close as the elder Elf cried into his shoulder. “Gods Tryggvi, I'm sorry, I'm so unbelievably _sorry-”_

"It's alright Pabbi," Tryggvi soothed, trying to keep the crack out of his own breaking voice.

"It's not," Íþró insisted. "I messed up so catastrophically, I tried so hard not to mess up and I managed to mess up so impossibly badly that I- Gods, and I couldn't even swallow my stupid pride and admit I was wrong even though I knew, I _knew-"_

Tryggvi shushed him, gripping his Pabbi's shoulders tighter. "I know. But it’s- it’s in the past now, Pabbi, it's done."

Íþró shook his head against his son’s shoulder, bunching the fabric of his jacket. “I’m sorry Tryggvi. I’m so very sorry.”

“Pabbi-”

“I want you to meet them Tryggvi,” Íþró interrupted suddenly, pulling back to look his son in the eye and setting a firm hand on Tryggvi’s cheek. “I want you to meet them,” he insisted, “they’re your _family,_ they’re your _mother’s family_ \- you never got the chance to meet her, you should meet them. I’m sorry I kept them from you for so long, I should never have- Gods, I just wanted you to be safe and happy, and I _damaged_ you.”  
   
“You didn’t damage me Pabbi,” Tryggvi promised, reaching up a hand to scrub at the tears welling up in his eyes.  
  
Íþró shook his head again. “I could've told you,” he said, “I could’ve talked to you about what I was seeing - about how you were feeling. But I didn’t, I was too selfish. I pretended that everything was fine when it _wasn’t_ and you _suffered_ for it.”  
   
“It’s alright Pabbi,” Tryggvi tried to insist, “I understand.”  
   
There wasn’t really much more he could say, and Tryggvi was struggling to come up with anything else, stuck repeating himself like a broken record. Between his own outburst that morning, the accidental eavesdrop revelation, and this, Tryggvi was having huge difficulty processing the situation. In some ways the whole thing had cut deep, but in others it hadn’t even registered. He didn’t think everything would truly sink in until much, much later. But from what his Pabbi had said so far… Tryggvi could understand, for the most part. Abstractly, anyway. A lot of it he only understood on a surface level - for a good deal of it he would only have ever been able to understand if he’d have had to live through it. Had he been in his Pabbi’s position, then he might have made the same choices, or he might not. It was all well and good to hear what his Pabbi had done and say ‘well I would have done it this way,’ when he knew how those choices had panned out, but without that future knowledge, Tryggvi could only guess as to what he would have done in Pabbi’s shoes.  
   
It was an impossibly difficult situation, but with his Pabbi so distraught, broken down in a way that Tryggvi had never ever seen and sobbing in his arms, he knew what he was going to do. He was going to forgive his Pabbi. Perhaps later he would feel anger when things truly began to sink in, but for now all Tryggvi could see was how sorry Íþró was for what he had done, and that even though he could and probably should have done things a lot differently, he had truly believed that he was doing what he thought was best for Tryggvi - for the most part anyway, and that counted for a lot in Tryggvi’s mind. His Pabbi hadn’t done it out of malice, or cruelty, mainly out of fear and love, misguided as it all was, and he knew he had made mistakes and was sorry - unbelievably so.  
   
Tryggvi could forgive that, at least.  
   
But he didn’t know how to say any of that, so instead he held his Pabbi, telling him over and over again that he wasn’t angry, that everything was alright, until both of their tears ran dry. 

When that happened they clung to eachother for a few more moments, until Íþró pulled back and rubbed at his eyes, turning away for a few moments to gather himself. Tryggvi let him go, using the break to wipe his cheeks. This was more emotion than Íþró had shown to Tryggvi in his son’s entire life, Tryggvi wasn’t suprised that he needed a moment to put himself together.  
   
“I want to meet them,” Tryggvi said when his Pabbi turned back around, voice weak but resolute.  
   
“You will, son,” Íþró promised, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “you will.”


End file.
